Silence for the Dead(53)

I stood in the doorway and registered, with the sudden clarity that sometimes floods the brain, the scene before me as a still tableau: Matron, the men turned to face her, their expressions expectant, the dwindling of a soft, decadent day in the windows. I took in the long shadows of the men playing across the high, bare walls, the cheap sparseness of the furniture arranged on the expensive floors, the smell of polish and men’s sweat and the faint smell of vinegar we used for cleaning. Every detail was as clear to me as a photograph.

Matron held up a sheaf of letters. “The mail has arrived.”

A murmur of excitement went up. We’d had a delivery that morning, hours before. But, of course, there had to be time for every letter to be opened, read, and vetted.

“Mr. Creeton,” Matron called. “Mr. Mabry.” One at a time, each man went forward to retrieve his letter. Those who weren’t called turned back to the window or picked up their book again, their faces carefully blank. I caught a glimpse of movement in the doorway behind me and saw the large bulk of Paulus Vries leaning in the corridor, his arms crossed and his gaze watchful. I wondered what scenes had taken place during previous distributions of mail.

“Nurse Weekes.”

Matron held out a letter to me, a thick, creamy, clean envelope. I stepped forward and took it from her. I turned it over, apprehension pinching my spine. It did not look official, and my father could not write.

The letter was from Maisey Ravell, a reply to the letter I’d written about her belongings. She wrote in a perfect, looping hand that matched her beautiful stationery, the ink utterly free of blots. It could have been a young lady’s polite letter to a friend, inquiring as to the health of her mother and asking her to tea.

Dear Kitty:

Meet me on Sunday just past the stand of trees by the west wing. There’s a clearing. You’ll see it when you enter the trees past the rise. I need to speak to you, and not just about my locket, though I will take it back if you have it. I will be there at two o’clock. Tell Matron you require an hour’s walk. The men will be at tea. She’s supposed to give you a half day off, but she never does, so make her grant this instead.

Perhaps you won’t come. You don’t even know me. But I’ve had time to think now, and you can help me. You must come. Don’t tell anyone. You must come.



Maisey Ravell

P.S. Thank you kindly for your letter.



Quickly, casually, I folded the letter and stuffed it deep in the pocket of my apron. The envelope had still been sealed; apparently the nurses were not subject to Matron’s review of their correspondence, something Maisey must have known.

What did it mean, that I could help her? I was in no position to help anyone, but maybe she could help me. I’d have to find out.

There had been a wave of murmured excitement when the letters were distributed, which quieted down. And then, as I was thinking about making an escape, utter silence circled the room in a ripple. Every man fell still, looking at the door behind my shoulder, and I felt the heat of awareness on the back of my neck.

I turned and saw Jack Yates in the doorway. He wore the sleeves of his hospital-issue shirt rolled up to his elbows. He paused, and the merest flicker of uncertainty crossed his features; then he continued into the room, walking into the light with the easy saunter that was his natural gait, crossing the open space in front of Matron—who stared at him, her eyebrows nearly shot up to her hairline—as if he had not been in seclusion for six months.

Even the men poring over their much anticipated letters had looked up, and every eye followed him across the room.

So much for Dr. Thornton’s rules, I thought.

I looked back at Matron warily, wondering when the thunder would descend, but she had schooled her face back to its usual inscrutable expression. For the merest second I thought I saw a twinkle of pleasure in her eye. Was it possible Matron was amused—even happy—that Jack had done away with an entire set of rules, just by walking through a door? It was progress, wasn’t it? It meant he wanted to get well. But the twinkle disappeared, if it had ever existed. She simply said in her usual voice, “Mr. Yates. It’s kind of you to join us.”

He nodded to her. “Evening, Matron. Is there a newspaper about?”

“There is,” she said, “but I believe Mr. Somersham currently has it in his possession.”

Somersham, sitting at the end of a sofa, held out his blacked-out checkerboard newspaper. “Oh, no, I’m quite finished. You can have it.”

“Are you certain?” asked Jack.

“Yes, sir.”

Jack accepted the paper from him and nodded. And just like that, the fiction that none of these men knew the identity of their fellow patient went up in vapor.

Jack had not looked at me. I took the opportunity to stare at him, since everyone else was already at it. I had seen him so often in the dark, in the gloom of lamplit shadows. I had nearly forgotten the effect of Jack Yates in the light, head to toe. He was hard to look away from.

He read the masthead of the newspaper. “This is from April,” he said.

“You are aware of the hospital’s policy about newspapers,” said Matron.

“All right,” said Jack, “I admit I don’t quite know what day it is, but April seems some time ago.”

“Current events—”

“Are harmful,” he said. He looked her in the eye. “Right. A man just wants the racing news. That’s all I’m saying.”